


Just last the year

by maniasquared



Series: Stucky One-Shots and Drabbles [15]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Accidental Cuddling, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst and Humor, Anorexia, Artist Steve Rogers, Body Dysphoria, Body Horror, Body Image, Bulimia, Comfort Food, Drinking, Eating Disorders, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Flirting, Fluff and Angst, Food, Food Issues, Gen, Hangover, Hurt/Comfort, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Multi, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Underage Drinking, Weight Gain, Weight Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-24
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2020-03-13 03:54:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18932884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maniasquared/pseuds/maniasquared
Summary: "He drops the bottle of painkillers with a deafening crash and the pills go everywhere. The sound alone nearly makes his head split down the middle. He curses under his breath, picking up the bottle to set on the counter. He swallows a borderline unsafe number of pills before he gets on his hands and knees to collect the mess. He aches all over and he’s ready to climb into bed for the rest of eternity.Bucky appears in the doorway, leaning against the frame. He’s not hungover; he never is. Back towards him, Steve doesn’t notice the added presence. Bucky’s about to make a smart-mouthed comment when he notes Steve’s body, how it looks drastically different without clothes on. It’s too angular."Or: Steve struggles with his weight gain, and Bucky finds out.





	Just last the year

**Author's Note:**

> "Come on skinny love just last the year, pour a little salt we were never here"
> 
> Title from "Skinny Love" by Bon Iver.
> 
> This is un-beta'd.

Steve’s never been the biggest or strongest guy. He knows that; he’s  _ painfully _ aware of that. Once he started college, though, he’s been putting on some weight. Well, the word ‘some’ is a bit of an understatement.  _ What’s it called? Freshman fifteen? Yeah, that sounds right. _ (But instead of fifteen, it’s more like fifty. And that’s  _ not _ an overstatement.)

This makes it sound like he’s some sickly, fragile thing. Steve’s not like that, not at all. His family was scared that was the case; but after years and years of testing and observations, the doctors simply explained—rather bluntly—that he’s much like a runt of the litter. He’s actually likely to be the healthiest in his family, with the caveat of a somewhat weak lung capacity (he was a “premie,” which is enough explanation for his shortcomings, according to the doctors). He’s just on the smaller size and his metabolism works better than the average person, making it extremely difficult for him to gain weight. His metabolism has slowed in recent years, but he still could eat the amount of food in a six-person household and barely get three pounds onto him. Or, at least, that was the case before college started. When he brought it up at the beginning of the fall semester his freshman year, his doctor said his metabolism finally evened out; he had nothing to worry about, the change might actually bring him up from being underweight.

It has. He’s in his second week of the spring semester his junior year and he’s now a whopping 122 pounds. _That’s, what? About a thirty pound difference, give or take?_ _Yay. Joy. Sweet. Fucking fantastic._

He should be happy about it; the gain makes him look healthier on the outside, almost reflecting his remarkable physical well-being on the  _ inside _ . But maybe it’s because he’s used to being little. Maybe it’s because he’s used to seeing his clavicles peek out of his shirt collars. Maybe it’s because he’s used to seeing his entire rib cage or spine when he’s not wearing a top. Maybe. He doesn’t know. All he knows is how much he hates his body when he looks at it. It doesn’t make any damn sense; he hated it when he was just skin and bones and he hates it now with a little bit of meat  _ on _ those bones.

Is that why he’s leaning over the toilet, forcing himself to empty his stomach? He’s been doing this since midterms of the fall semester his sophomore year, yet he’s still dissatisfied. He used to be heavier, so that’s a win in the very least. It’s not enough, though. It won’t be until he’s back to being his 95-pound self.

When he decides he can’t get anything else to come up, he stands shakily. He goes about his normal maneuvers: flushing the toilet, washing his hands, splashing cold water on his face and drying it with a towel, swishing some water, brushing his teeth, and using mouthwash. The whole routine takes less than 10 minutes; he’s perfected it by now well enough he could do the whole thing in five, but since no one’s home he can take his time without suspicion.

He opens the door, wandering his way into the living room to get some studying done before his roommates come home because _God forbid_ there be such thing as _indoor voices_. He glances at the clock, determining he has about an hour and a half before Sam gets home at two. _Wait…. What day is it?_ _Wednesday, so it’ll be one, not two…._ He curses once he realizes he only has a half hour to try to get through his reading for his Art History class.

Steve can’t really keep track of time recently; his mind feels fried and he blames his new reading and writing intensive courses. He ignores the part of his brain that says he’s had issues with time since around Christmas (when his starving and purging habits started getting more intense), way before classes started.

He settles into his favorite armchair, pulling a blanket over his legs. It’s freezing in the house but he knows not to touch the thermostat. He really doesn’t want to pay more for heating  _ and _ get chewed out by Nat; she’d be pissed. And if she’s in a bad mood, she puts Sam in a bad mood. And if Sam’s in a bad mood, then Steve’s in a bad mood. And if Steve’s in a bad mood, then Bucky’s in a bad mood. And if Bucky’s in a bad mood, God save their household.

Steve takes out his massive textbook and flicks through it, his hands quivering from the cold and lack of  _ unnecessary _ calories his body says it “needs.”

He sighs and begins the reading:  _ During the Renaissance, human-focused interest took place of god-focused interest. This was demonstrated in art through…. _

* * *

 

Steve shouldn’t let himself be persuaded to go out. But Sam wouldn’t stop pestering him, telling him to stop being such a stick in the mud, “Steve, c’mon, we’re celebrating! It’s the end of the semester and that means you and Bucky have only got one more semester before you graduate!”

Sam has a point. He finally caves, thinking maybe it would be good to go out and actually make use of being 21 to his advantage. He hasn’t gone to a bar yet (legally) despite being of age for five months now. Plus, he’s a senior in college and he’s running short on time with Nat and Sam since they’re a year younger. Not really running out of time, they just won’t be able to see each other as much once he and Bucky get their own apartment in the city so they can be closer to their new jobs…  _ if _ they get jobs in the city.

Sam does an excited dance and runs to get the other two from the kitchen when Steve agrees. Then the realization hit him. If he’s out with his friends at a bar, he’s going to be expected to  _ eat _ and  _ drink _ with them. He can already feel himself getting fatter just thinking about the greasy and carb-filled calories. He’s been doing so good with his eating, too. He’s finally down, even weighing less than when he started college, but he wants to shave off another five pounds to feel content with himself. He can’t let himself get fat again. He can’t. He has to come up with a plan to avoid eating or eating as little as possible and purging as soon as he had the chance.

Soon enough, Sam and Nat are sitting in a corner booth while Steve and Bucky order their drinks. Bucky’s gotten drinks for his underage friends, including the blond a few times, enough to be calm while talking to the bartender. Steve, on the other hand, is on his first bootleg run. He’s not even the one getting the drinks, he’s just Bucky’s wingman, yet he’s still filled with anxiety. Bucky grins at him and bites his lip as he looks over Steve’s frame. Steve doesn’t see. Barely keeping it together, he almost drops the bottles as he stiffly walks back to his seat. He slides Nat’s drink to his left, moving closer to her so Bucky could sit on his right.

“Hell yeah, let’s get this party started,” Sam nearly yells when Bucky hands him a drink. Steve just rolls his eyes, curling up slightly.

“Hey, man, you good?” Bucky asks with worry all over his face, nudging Steve.

“Yeah… yeah, I’m fine,” Steve replies. He shivers a little more. “Just cold.”

“You’re cold? I’m hot right now,” Sam interjects. He wriggles his eyebrows. “Then again, I’m always hot.” There’s a collective groan from the other three. “Okay, fine, fine—shut up, Barnes—it was a bad joke, I know. But seriously, Steve, it might be December and there might be snow outside and shit, but this bar always runs on the warm side. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Sam’s right, you’ve been saying you’re cold a lot recently. Are you getting sick?” Nat’s staring at him like she’s solving a problem she can’t quite figure out. She makes that face whenever she peeks over their friend Scott’s sheet music.

Steve’s about to tell them he’s okay, really, when he figures that faking sickness could get him out of drinking and eating as much. He shrugs his shoulder, “I might be, I’m not sure.”

“Our poor  _ baby _ !” Sam teases, throwing a hand over his heart. Nat punches him in the shoulder, not enough to hurt, but that’s never stopped Sam from exaggerating. “Ouch! How dare you? You… you… bitch!”

The two start bickering, as they always do. Steve and Bucky laugh. The blond grins, “What are they going to do when we move out?”

“Probably fuck,” Bucky sounds so nonchalant about it that it takes Steve aback. “Oh, Steve, come  _ on _ . You seriously didn’t think that was going to happen at some point?”

He contemplates it for a few seconds, then sighs, leaning into Bucky’s shoulder to leech some of his warmth. Steve doesn’t notice the way the brunet’s cheeks go pink as he nuzzles in. Bucky’s perpetually warm, Steve sometimes calls him his personal hot pocket. That makes him blush, too. “Honest to God, the thought never crossed my mind.” His stomach feels like it’s eating itself; he tries to ignore it. “Do you think they’ve already…?”

“Nah, I bet it’s going to happen within the first two weeks we’re gone,” Bucky whispers as he gets closer to his friend; Steve thinks he smells crisp, like his hard cider. Bucky’s halfway through it by now, which isn’t outside his normal drinking habits.

“And your reasoning is?” The smaller one moves so he’s practically in Bucky’s lap, he’s frigid and desperately needs body heat. He’s still oblivious to the growing blush his friend wears.

“Well, I think that when we’re gone and they have the house to themselves that one of two things will happen when they spend more alone time together. One, they-they,” Bucky stutters when Steve pushes his hands in between their touching thighs. Bucky shakes his head and continues, receiving a perplexed look from Steve. “One, they finally realize that they’re attracted to each other and bang all romantic-like. Or, two, they get into an argument and then it turns into hot—well, you know what I’m saying.”

Steve laughs so hard he snorts, drawing the attention of Sam and Nat.

“What’s so funny?” Nat charges, eyes narrowing.

“Nothing,” the other two say simultaneously, feigning innocence.

“Okay then, twins from The Shining….” She turns back to Sam, who was not-so-subtly checking her out. “Samuel!”

“What? I’m just enjoying the view!”

And once again, they dive back into a ridiculous banter. Taking a sip of his beer, Steve comments, “Damn, Buck, I think you just might be right about something for  _ once _ in your life.”

“First of all: rude. Second of all: of course I’m right,” Bucky scoffs. He opens his mouth to make a snarky remark when a waiter swings by to drop off the food Steve assumes he ordered at the counter earlier. “Thank you—yeah—can I have another? Yeah—actually, do you have ‘Arrogant Bastard’ on tap?—Awesome, I’ll take it…. Tall, please. Thanks—anyway, Stevie, that was really unkind of you to say. I think my feelings are hurt.” He pops a fry into his mouth, putting on his best puppy dog eyes at the same time. Sam and Nat stop their arguing to dig into the dishes in front of them, quietly observing their two friends interact.

Steve bites back a smile; he’s seen the puppy dog eyes entirely too many times, he’s immune by now. He takes another drink despite his brain screaming at him about the calories; he got the beverage with the least amount of calories and he was thirsty, maybe he can cut himself some slack? “Wow, and I was under the impression that you didn’t have feelings. I guess you learn something new every day.”

“You’re such a punk, you know that?” Bucky finishes the last of his bottle, setting in the middle of the table. He grabs another fry.

“Yep, and you’re a jerk.” Steve’s stomach contracts at the smell of bar food. He misses it. He refuses to let himself give in, pressing himself harder against his friend. Nat mutters something to Sam, and Bucky shoots them a side glance. He offers the blond a piece as if he could read Steve’s mind. “No, thanks, Buck. I think I’m good.”

“Stevie, I got you your favorite,” he whines in response. “I know how much you love mozzarella sticks from here.”

It’s true, Steve loves the appetizer; they know how to do it just right. He can’t do it. He’s splurging with the alcohol, the amount he’s ingested is quickly getting him tipsy due to his weight and lack of food in his system, but he can’t let himself eat more. It doesn’t help that he hasn’t drank in a while or the fact that he’s a lightweight to begin with, the complete opposite of Bucky.

“I know, I’m sorry, I don’t feel all that well so I don’t think eating that would be a good idea. I’m sorry.”

The way Bucky’s face falls is hardly noticeable, but Steve’s known him long enough to pick up on his body language and mannerisms. The guilt eats at him worse than his hunger. Before the other can get the fry into his mouth, Steve lunges in and takes a bite. It tastes like fucking heaven. Steve thinks he might be experiencing what some people call a “foodgasm.” He audibly groans, he definitely sounds like he just had a wildly amazing orgasm, he forgot how delicious the bar food is. Steve recognizes that this is dangerous territory, but the elated look on Bucky’s face makes up for it (Steve wonders why his eyes darken a little after the groan he made). He’s beaming as he washes down the greasy mozzarella stick with his beer. His head and body feel slow. Yeah, he’s certainly tipsy. He lifts his bottle to see how much he's drunk, he’s three-fourths done. Christ, he’s definitely not getting another; he might be wasted by the end of  _ one _ drink.

When the rest of the mozzarella stick appears in front of him to take, Steve simply opens his mouth. Bucky doesn’t hesitate to feed it to him, radiant as ever. Steve, definitely more inebriated than he thinks he is, winks boldly. The brunet bites his lip, turning red under the collar and averting his eyes to where they’re still pressed together. He gets even redder. Steve studies his behavior as he sets his empty beverage on the tabletop, briefly acknowledging Sam and Nat talking excitedly while stealing glances towards their friends. Bucky’s  _ never _ shy; he’s unabashedly loud and daring and downright flirty, doesn’t matter who he’s with. So why is he acting like this now? Steve doesn’t get it.

Finally warm enough with the aid of alcohol, Steve pulls himself back into his personal space. He doesn’t think twice about grabbing another mozzarella stick. He doesn’t see the pained look in Bucky’s eyes, but Nat does. She’s about to ask what’s wrong when Steve dives into a conversation with her.

Bemused, the three stare at the blond as he talks animatedly. They haven’t seen him this relaxed in several months, and they’re happy about it, yet something seems off. Maybe it’s just because he’s drinking, they must have forgotten how he acts when he’s drunk since it’s been awhile. Regardless, they’re relieved he’s enjoying himself.

* * *

 

He wakes with a throbbing headache and a dry mouth. And a fever. He feels like he was hit by a truck. Being hungover is one of the reasons Steve doesn’t drink often. He lays in his bed for what seems like an hour when he feels the dire need to puke.

He pulls himself out of bed as fast as his dizzy head will let him. He stumbles into the bathroom he shares with Bucky, not bothering to shut the door, there isn’t enough time. He bends over the toilet and dry heaves. He’s shaking uncontrollably. After a few minutes, the involuntary gagging subsides and he can stand without fear of going into another episode of throwing up nothing. He’s radiating an absurd amount of heat, sweating through his pajama shirt. He yanks it over his head. Deeming it not enough, he removes his flannel sleep pants and wool socks. It’s like drunk Steve was trying to punish hungover Steve the night before when he put on all those warm clothes. Even in just his boxers, he thinks he might start on fire with how hot he feels.

He drops the bottle of painkillers with a deafening crash and the pills go everywhere. The sound alone nearly makes his head split down the middle. He curses under his breath, picking up the bottle to set on the counter. He swallows a borderline unsafe number of pills before he gets on his hands and knees to collect the mess. He aches all over and he’s ready to climb into bed for the rest of eternity.

Bucky appears in the doorway, leaning against the frame. He’s not hungover; he never is. Back towards him, Steve doesn’t notice the added presence. Bucky’s about to make a smart-mouthed comment when he notes Steve’s body, how it looks drastically different without clothes on. It’s too angular. His arms and legs are gaunt; his hip bones jut out in a bilious way. Bucky can count every single rib, every single vertebra. Even his shoulder blades look cadaverous. His skin seems to stretch over his bones, a walking skeleton. He’s sick, unhealthy. He looks like he’s on the verge of death.

It takes Bucky’s breath away, makes his eyes well up at the thought of losing his best friend, hell, the man he’s in love with. His voice cracks, betraying him, “Steve?”

Steve knows that tone all too well. He knows what’s going to happen next. He doesn’t know if he can handle it with the state he’s in. Freezing in his hunched over position, Steve mumbles, “Yeah?”

“Look-look at me, please,” he urges. Steve’s still trembling, not changing his stance. “Stevie, please. Just-just look at me, please. Please.”

There’s a long, unmoving silence before Steve obliges. Sitting on the tile floor, he gazes at Bucky, expressionless. He hates seeing the anguish and disappointment. He expects a speech, or questions, or both. He braces himself for it, keeping eye contact even though it hurts.

His face is hollow and his collar bones protrude ghastly. Bucky falls apart, bursting into tears once he sees Steve from the front. He slides down the door frame, curling up to hide his face. Steve’s dumbfounded; he was prepared for anything but this. His blood runs cold, all of his hangover symptoms fly out the window. He crawls over, gently placing his hand on the brunet’s knee. “Buck….”

He doesn’t get a response, only harder sobbing. He stays there, waiting out the worst of it. When Bucky mostly subsides, he’s pulled into those warm, strong arms. Bucky wraps his entire being around Steve’s frail body, head burrows into the crook of his bony neck. Hot tears fall onto the ghostly skin and Steve lets himself be held, understanding Bucky needs it. Probably more than Steve does.

Steve’s anticipating the questions. The ‘how could you do this to yourself?’ The ‘why?’ He’s not anticipating what Bucky actually says.

“Stevie, you don’t need to do this to yourself, you’re already perfect the way you are.” Steve sits in stunned silence. “You’re fucking gorgeous, Stevie. I’ve never seen anyone more beautiful in my whole life.”

“What?” He manages to get the word out of his straining throat.

Bucky detaches from Steve’s clavicle, their gazes meet. He continues crying as he takes his hands and places them on Steve’s face, thumbs rubbing the prominent cheekbones. “I love you, Steve. I’m head over heels in love with you.” He takes one of Steve’s hands in his own and repeats, “I’m in love with you. All of you.”

He presses a kiss to the other’s knuckles and then his wrist. He uses his spare hand to brush through Steve’s hair.

“All of me?” Steve croaks, his chest aching. He feels his own tears threatening to spill.

“Yes. All of you. Every single bit and piece that makes up you—physical, mental, spiritual, all of it—I love you. Just you.” Bucky brings their foreheads together, whispering a promise, “Just you.”


End file.
